


About To Miss Everything

by omfglookitsme



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blood, Blood and Injury, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky's POV, Character Death, Descriptions of Injury, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Injury, M/M, Major Character Injury, Possible Character Death, bucky's perspective, i made that shit ambiguous, i make them suffer again oops, oops i did it again, oopsy doopsy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-01
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:28:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27747493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omfglookitsme/pseuds/omfglookitsme
Summary: The chances of me making it out while still breathing grow so slim that it essentially creates one certainty in this situation.I'll take some of them down, but they'll take me down with them.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	About To Miss Everything

**Author's Note:**

> choo choo the angst train is BACK, baby.  
> first thing i write in over two years and this is what i produce? how On Brand™  
> i tried making the ending ambiguous if that's any consolation.
> 
> took some inspiration from lyrics of 'bulls in the bronx' by pierce the veil because i was being nostalgic and listening to old playlists. the theme of the song itself isn't relevant, but feel free to listen whilst reading:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WumCI56iYUk&ab_channel=PierceTheVeilVEVO

Maybe going on this mission wasn't the greatest idea. 

Accepting it with as much enthusiasm as I did maybe wasn't the best.

Going right off the back of another mission was arguably unwise.

Making this my sixth consecutive mission without a substantial rest period could be called plain fucking stupid.

The others were going though, _Steve_ was going, and I just...I had to say yes. 

It's difficult to say no when you know you have something to prove to both yourself and everyone else. It's been like that for some time, ever since that **one** mission. We had all gone to follow some intel on a Hydra base located in Austria, and the location was too uncomfortably familiar. It was right in the middle of the Alps, deep down where I vividly remember the quickly approaching end of a great fall. Just looking at the pale, frosty sky above made it feel like my ribs were curving in in an attempt to crush the inside of my chest. The base we found had an unwanted sense of familiarity, bringing flashes of what might have been memories to my attention. Whatever they were, they were horrifying. Naturally throughout the mission I was off form, and the team would later tell me that the plates of my arm had been repeatedly tightening and loosening their formation, and that I appeared distracted, like I wasn't even there. The number of close calls I had and even created for others was too great for someone who is usually on their game 24/7. The aftermath of the mission was no better. The whole jet ride back once I had found a hiding place and the adrenaline had worn off had me unemotional and crying, motionless and shaking, silent and screaming. I'm not sure which part of my brain decided that _that_ was the one day where I couldn't handle it, but hell was it decisive. 

Once we had gotten back to base for a team meeting which I rolled into once I had finally shut my brain up, it wasn't long until hell broke loose. I refused to admit that I struggled which had Natasha, Sam, and Steve all going slightly pink in the face with their frustration as their voices gradually rose. The phrases _"temporary leave"_ , _"he can't be trusted to have our backs"_ , and _"he needs time"_ were thrown around. I had just looked back at them, feet resting on the table and arms across my chest, careful not to let my face show anything. I had just let it all wash over me, deciding that I could lament over their words and get angry about them later without all those pairs of eyes on me. Natasha and Sam gave up, but Steve had continued even past the meeting. That was the moment where I couldn't brush the words off anymore and my anger burst through the barriers I had tried so hard to create to suppress it. I couldn't hold back, and a full-blown argument erupted in the middle of the hallway.

Since then Steve and I haven't really spoken beyond the few words spaced apart by hours, and I have been finding alternative places to sleep or just haven't been sleeping at all. That then led to me accepting any solo mission that was thrown my way by Fury, because those gave me time to think and time away from the almost unbearable atmosphere created by the team and Steve since the end of that mission. In my head a least, those solo missions would also give me the chance to prove myself, to show that I am reliable, that I am capable, and that I can do this god **dammit**. The more missions I completed successfully, the more I craved the next one to the point where I would do back to back missions with perhaps only a day in between where I was back at the base, and even then I rarely spoke to the others. Not to say that Steve didn't try, but I would decide to spend the time sleeping instead and in turn ignoring him. I never did it intentionally, but I guess regardless of my intentions the spite of my actions was too loud to ignore. 

In the effort to prove myself, the process became almost fun as I found my time filled with calculated footsteps and the subtle smell of smoke from gun barrels, revelling in it like the smell of a warm cup of coffee nestled between two palms at sunrise. Looking at the situation I'm in now though, maybe I was having _too_ much fun.

Going into it I knew that the level of risk that the current mission was to bring was particularly high, but that was all the more reason to agree to it. I needed to prove myself and make up for the last time I worked with the team, and even though we haven't been speaking I had to make sure Steve was safe, and I know I can do that. It's something that has always been hardwired into me, even before the arm and before that big fucking war. My primary mission has always been him, even before missions became my life. 

Besides, risk meant nothing.

Or so I thought.

Risk means a hell of a lot now with the sound of shouting and gunfire rattling around my skull. It means a hell of a lot now that my comms device is officially out of commission laying shattered on the ground. It means a _hell_ of a lot now that I'm wounded. The downside of having a metal arm is that the rest of me isn't. Invincibility is a lie that they try to convince us of, and if you are convinced by it then it comes back to bite you in the ass. I was never convinced, yet here I am; ass: bitten.

Currently I'm having to take cover behind a large pile of rubble that I'm pretty sure used to be the now missing corner of the nearest building. It feels like it's gloating as it towers over me. My body is littered with injuries, with the immeasurable number of cuts, scratches, and grazes being the absolute least of my concerns in this moment. There's a large gash on my forehead, the blood becoming the disgusting glue that keeps my hair clinging to the side of my face, with the fresh blood trickling down and narrowly missing my left eye, although I'm pretty sure a drop or two still found themselves on my sclera and staining it. A mild concussion may come later, but with the flow of blood slowing it's not a major issue for now. The lower left side of my abdomen has two open bullet wounds, the blood slowly oozing from them like treacle. They're not top of my list of concerns right now either, especially considering the large open wound on my left thigh, the excessive bleeding of which I am desperately attempting to stem with just my right hand whilst also trying to claw the ragged edges of torn skin back together. The bastards had some sort of sonic cannon that was not accounted for which threw me and plenty of others straight off our feet, and I was lucky enough to land in a way which ended up with a distorted piece of rebar piercing a good way into my thigh. The fact that I was the one that landed the fatal shot perfectly between the cannon handler's eyes once I got my wits about me again makes me feel slightly better. Only slightly.

Sure some injury was due with the risk again being high when looking at the intel, but the team never anticipated that it would be this bad. Not this level of injury, although thankfully no one appears to have it as bad as me. They're all still fighting with ferocity. The main aim of the mission has been achieved, it's now just tying up loose ends in the form of a hail of bullets before the team can vacate. The mission is looking to be heading in the direction of success, but it will be a miracle if I make it out of here at this rate.

I briefly wonder what's going through Steve's head right now. Does he wonder where the hell I am? Does he dare consider that I may be on the ground dying somewhere? Or does he not wonder at all and instead remain focused on the fight at hand? I know Steve far too well for the pessimism that constantly bubbles inside me to convince me that the latter is most likely. Not relieving any of the pressure placed on my thigh so as not to accelerate potential death by bleeding out, I twist my upper body and use my left arm to raise myself just enough to see over my cover. Everyone else appears to still be in the fight, and almost instantly my eyes are drawn to Steve as if I have a sixth sense for the idiot. His suit is torn and I can see the muddy brown of dirt smeared across his face, but for the most part he looks uninjured as he somewhat gracefully throws his shield and twists his body in the air to avoid a hostile, catching his shield as his feet touch the ground again just in time to absolutely smack the guy around the head, sending his whole body to the ground forcefully. I can't help but be just a _little_ impressed and in awe.

A large group of hostiles are slowly working their way towards his location where Natasha and Clint are also, with Wanda not far away but trying to fend off her own onslaught of soldiers. Stark and Sam are overhead but focused on a separate area to where Steve is. I survey the oncoming group, and an initial sweep of them counts twenty-seven targets. With Wanda, Stark, and Sam occupied that could easily overwhelm the others despite the fact that Steve can more than handle himself, Natasha is lethal, and Clint is...well, Clint is Clint. Twenty-seven versus three that are already occupied isn't a recipe for success even with the best odds, and I can see the disaster about to unfold if something isn't done and soon. If I could pull myself up and manage to walk, I could serve as a distraction by walking out into the open. I'm confident that I can down at least six of them, and th-

Then what? In the state I'm in and with those numbers I'm a magnet for the barrels of those guns; I might as well carve my name into the bullets. I'm fair game in that open space. The chances of me getting shot are so high that there is no point even considering a scenario where I don't get shot. And the chances of me making it out while still breathing grow so slim that it essentially creates one certainty in this situation.

I'll take some of them down, but they'll take me down with them.

I slump back down to my previous position on the ground, letting the reality of what these next few moments mean for me begin to sink in. If I go ahead and create that much needed distraction then I'm basically banging at Death's door _begging_ him to let me in, but it means that the others have the best chance of completing the mission and getting out of here. If I sit and do nothing then there is a chance that none of us will make it out of here at all.

If I do nothing, we all might die.

If I do nothing, Steve might die.

My job is to keep Steve safe. I can't let him die.

In my chest my heart is beating erratically as my ribs desperately attempt to keep it caged, my throat feeling as if it's filled with a sickly mixture of mucus and acid as I attempt to come to terms with what will be an inevitable death. I had always imagined the end, but in a distant future and not like this. Most people tend to imagine a peaceful end, and despite the life I've lived I dared entertain the thought of that for me but I don't think I can be blamed. With all the conflict and trauma I've endured in this painfully long life, I believe it is only fair that my exit allows me that one solitary peaceful event. A spray of bullets isn't what I'd necessarily call peaceful.

What sends a chill down my spine though is the thought of what I'm going to miss out on. Initially I imagine the empty space I'll leave on the team, but almost as quick as that thought enters my mind it is dismissed because my spot won't be a difficult one to fill. I'll miss the chuckles of disbelief as the team sits aboard the jet back home. I'll miss out on the hearty meal awaiting us all upon our return, and I have it on good authority that steak is involved.

I'll miss that Parker kid's birthday in a couple of weeks. Stark was going to surprise him with a 'subtle' celebration, but Stark's subtle isn't the same as everyone else's definition. Parker is going to be formally inducted as a member of the core Avengers team, new suit and all. I'd even gotten him a gift last week. I hadn't planned on doing so, but whilst aimlessly wandering around on a blissful day I had free I had spotted something in a store window and it made me think of the kid. I'm pretty sure he likes those Lego kits, and there was a pretty huge Star Wars one. Having not really seen anything Lego related since before the war, I must admit that I had been impressed by this kit. Having bought the thing, I was honestly kind of looking forward to giving it to him. Hopefully Steve will find it in the back of the closet when the day rolls around.

I'll miss whatever "team building" day out Clint has been yapping on about for the last couple of months. He wanted us all to do something after Parker's birthday, something relaxed so we could all just hang out as friends rather than teammates. Bowling and one of those escape rooms were the most popular suggestions, but knowing Clint he would somehow manage to make the time for us all to do both and still make time designated to drinking. I was mildly fond of the idea of doing an escape room, those things sound interesting and actually use your brain, a form of exercise that Sam and Clint could really do with. It sounded like fun and a welcome distraction from life in general. It would have been fun.

I'll miss Steve. I'll miss out on the opportunity to finally take my head out of my ass and talk to him, to move on from that huge argument and go back to how things were. I'll miss the night when I finally return to sleeping in our bed again, the insane warmth of Steve beside me and a heavy arm draped over my torso, keeping me weighted in the reality and life I found myself in after all the Hydra bullshit. I'll miss those drawings he would do of me at random moments that I always feigned annoyance at but really I was always curious to see how Steve saw me through his eyes, and everytime I would be surprised and always at a loss for words. I was always in disbelief that someone could even see me in such a way that I could never see when looking in a mirror. In admiration. In adoration. As if I was something to be worshipped. I'll miss out on that dumb vacation he was desperate for us to go on, _"somewhere warm"_ he had said, _"someplace quiet"_. All the evenings we had spent scrolling through various travel sites in an attempt to find the perfect destination, the evenings I had spent just watching his face as his eyes would light up at some suggestions and his brows would furrow at others. I never really cared for the destination, I cared more for the person I would spend the time there with. Now I'll miss on further research, the vacation itself, and the memories I would have made. I try to imagine the feeling of the sea gently whirling around my ankles and the feeling of the sea breeze on my face with the hint of salt it usually carries. I'll miss the date night he wanted us to have, something where we could spend some quality time together with just the two of us, celebrating what we have. Like the fucking sap he is, he had suggested a candlelit dinner either someplace with an amazing view or in our own living room. Wherever it would have been, I'll miss out on that one evening. I'll miss seeing his face lit up by candlelight as he would look at me with nothing but admiration despite everything. 

I'll miss the day we both decide to finally pack it in and retire, finally slowing down and just **living**. We'd move somewhere isolated in the country, with a gorgeous lake we could both look out on from our chairs on the porch of a house we could finally call ours. In the mornings we would get out of bed late, there would be nothing that would mean we'd have to do otherwise. Steve would read a book, fingers tangling themselves in my hair, whilst I would have my earphones in listening to music or whatever podcast would strike my fancy. The days would have no sense of urgency, we would take all the time given to us in those daylight hours to just embrace living after a long and tiring life of constant conflict. Maybe we would go for long walks, try our hands at cooking new things, or maybe we would just lie in the fresh grass that would be waiting for us right outside. At night the sky would be clear and twinkling with stars that are usually concealed by the hustle and bustle of the city. Fireflies would float elegantly around us as we would watch the shimmering reflection of the moon in the lake. The nights would be cold, but I'd have Steve beside me for warmth, an arm around me with the other pointing out constellations. Maybe we'd even get a dog, this life hasn't allowed me the simple joy of a pet. I'd call him Buster and I would have adored him almost as much as I adore Steve. I'll miss out on those summer evenings we would have sat on that porch reminiscing on the past, one hand in Steve's and the other gently ruffling the fur of Buster. Maybe we would have even had smiles on our faces.

I'll miss the warmth of knowing without a shadow of a doubt that I am loved.

I'm going to miss out on so much, but regardless of whether I take action or not I'll miss out anyway. It's almost as if the choice has already been made for me. 

A distraction requires movement, and I can't exactly do that whilst attempting to keep my thigh in a somewhat stable condition. Reaching under my jacket with my available left hand, I harshly tug at the undershirt and rip it from me. My jacket would be too stiff for my needs, but the shirt material is far easier to use in place of an actual bandage. Whilst maintaining pressure with my right hand, with my metal one I carefully yet with a sense of hurry bring the torn fabric under my thigh whilst trying not to get the loose threads caught between the plates of my fingers. Once in place, I remove my right hand and as fast as I can I wrap the fabric all around my thigh and tie it together as tightly as possible so as to keep pressure on the open wound. Satisfied that the makeshift bandage will be enough, I grab my rifle from the floor beside me and remove the magazine, getting a rough idea of how many bullets I have to play with. _Enough_ , I conclude. The magazine slots back in with a click and with it held in one hand, I use my left to slowly push myself up. That is not without difficulty, because holy shit my thigh is not feeling all that great at this moment. With gritted teeth I manage to position myself into a crouch, one knee on the ground ready to push myself up when the time is right. Peaking over my cover, I can see that the group of soldiers are closer to Steve's position, almost too close for comfort at this point.

I **have** to act in the next few moments.

I pinpoint the exact moment I'll burst from my cover with the distraction, just a few more steps forward to be made by the group. A second too soon or too late could make all the difference. At this point death has almost been accepted, although reluctantly.

 _You're about to miss everything_ , my heart tells me. 

_You're about to lose everything if you don't go now_ , my brain tells me.

And so I go.

"Hey, assholes!" My voice roars as I stumble out from behind the safety of that rogue piece of concrete.

Their attention has been effectively drawn to me just as I had hoped, although some random guy covered in blood and dirt with a metal arm calling you an asshole would draw anyone's attention. There's only a second between their noticing me and their shooting at me that I have to take advantage of. So I do, aiming and taking down three of the men, each taking a single fatal shot. Then all hell breaks loose, and at this point the others have noticed me. I decide not to focus on the look of horror that adorns Steve's face. Shots start coming my way and as I continue to stumble forward, teeth gritted with a look of utmost determination, I use my left arm to deflect any bullets that would otherwise be horrifically bad news to me and my fragile flesh.

Another two shots fired, another two hostiles down. By this point the rest of the team has definitely noticed and are fighting off the hostiles that have darted in their direction as well as those who are closest to them from the group focused on me. My left arm continues to deflect shots, until it doesn't. One comes into contact with my right shoulder, piercing through the fatty tissue and muscle until it exits through the back. The force of the bullet on my shoulder pushes me back slightly, twisting my upper body back as it follows the path of the bullet. Letting out a sharp exhale, I keep my left arm lifted to shield myself whilst I do a quick assessment of the damage. Clean shot in and out, I can still move the shoulder if I push through the sting of it, and I can still wiggle my fingers. With that final piece of knowledge, I look up through the stray pieces of hair that have fallen in front of my face, take aim at the soldier nearest to me who fired the shot, and fire my own. Down he goes.

With a roar I force myself further forward, ducking from and deflecting bullets as I go and strategically firing back my own. Another man down. Another bullet catches me, this time on the left side of my neck. Without even looking or properly assessing it I can tell that the bullet has just caused a superficial graze, so without hesitation I continue on, teeth still gritted as my bloody and torn thigh increasingly bothers me to the point where I'm almost dragging my leg behind me. I'm surprised my teeth haven't cracked yet. After watching me drop their numbers one by one their desperation heightens as the shots and their aim on me feels like it increases. Whether that's true or my body starting to lag because holy shit have I put it through the wringer, I can't quite put my finger on it.

Then a shot lands on my left shin, the travel of the bullet stopped only by the bone itself, and I can't help but let out a pained shout. I can feel the shockwaves ripple through the rest of my shin, and I'm damn sure that the bone isn't too happy right now, especially as this is the shot that sends me down to one knee as my leg buckles. _Not how I thought I would get down on one knee_. Arm still held up, once I catch my breath again I take a second to peer around the shield of my arm at Steve. It's as if he's tuned into what's going on with me, a sense he has always had. I can see his look of fear, it's written all over his face but god his eyes are **screaming** at me. 

As Steve begins to run towards me, it's as if everything goes into slow motion. I'm allowed a moment to assess the situation as it has developed, and it's not looking good for me, but then again it never did. My breathing is heavy with all the energy I'm having to exert just to keep myself upright at this point, everything in me just wants to shut down and drop to the floor. The wound on my forehead which had only mildly started to heal on the surface has pulled itself open again slightly, the blood dripping down my face leaving warm trails behind them. I can feel my shoulder tense with twinges of pain as I allow myself the time to acknowledge and actually feel the injury. From keeping a metal arm held up in the air continuously, my upper back and the left side of my chest are screaming at me to just let the damn arm drop for just a single moment of relief. With the even worsened state of my left leg that my body just wants to let drop off at this point with all the blood loss and ripples of constant pain, there's no way I can push myself further forward or even retreat to cover. Despite the others having noticed my dire predicament there's no time, the group of hostiles are closing in to my position. In that moment it sinks in. This spot is going to be my last stand.

Better make it count.

Lifting my right arm with a grunt as my shoulder protests and keeping as tight a grip on my rifle as possible, I take what will likely be one last aim. As I line up my shot and pull the trigger, my left arm drops heavily as my body can't keep it held up any longer, the muscles of my chest and back burning from the continuous effort. Just as my last bullet makes it through two separate soldiers, a shot that won't be their last for now hits me in the chest, just below my left pectoral muscle. The impact sends me backwards, my back hitting the dirt ground with a heavy thud as does the back of my head. My chest feels like a swarm of natural disasters. Stopping in its tracks, I can feel the pressure of the bullet lodged in my chest and it's as if a tsunami goes through my chest, wave after wave crashing through my chest and wreaking havoc on the surrounding tissue and ribs. It's almost as if I can feel my ribs literally clawing into my chest, their talons piercing into the tissue. The blood that is free to run through my chest internally burns like magma and runs like lava from the entry wound. Just breathing sends gusts of pain flurrying across my chest, swirling and growing in intensity as the gusts edge closer to the site of the trapped bullet. The affected lung feels like a landslide, collapsing under the weight of the trauma caused by both the bullet and the surrounding ribs that were supposed to protect it. Breathing becomes just that little bit more difficult with each passing second, and I can hear a wheeze with each breath that continues to increasingly border on a gasp. 

_Nine,_ I think. _Better than expected._

Around me the sounds of shouting and gunfire dull as I stare up at the sky on what is a surprisingly clear day with there being only a few loose wisps of cloud. The pale blue settles me slightly, having the calming effect it is supposedly meant to possess. Maybe I do get my moment of peace at the end after all. At first I think there's nothing to worry about now, but that's when Steve's face appears above me and my already frantic heart rate faults for a moment because oh god, _Steve_. Pale blue is replaced by watery blue as his eyes swim with despair, the evidence cascading down his cheeks in troubled rivers. Frantically his eyes dart across my body assessing the damage, his mouth forming into a thin line and his shoulders tensing slightly as he takes in each individual injury, his hands hovering uncertainly as he tries to decide where to apply pressure: the larger thigh injury that is oozing crimson through the makeshift bandage and down my thigh or the smaller but suffocating chest wound that maintains a steady stream of blood? It takes him just seconds to decide, placing both hands firmly over the bullet wound in an attempt to stem the bleeding and to keep air from filling my chest any more than it already is. Over his shoulder he screams for help, his pleas littered with profanity directed mainly at Stark.

The warmth of his hands is indiscernible from the warmth of the blood blooming from my injury. I'm already starting to miss out.

My eyes take the time to carefully trace over his face, drinking in every detail until I'm dizzy from it. When I close my eyes I want to be able to create a perfect replication of every feature, every crease in his skin. Then my eyes land on his and I take a moment to really look at them. All I see is anguish. Our red-tinged eyes almost match, although whilst mine is from my blood falling into one of my eyes, Steve's is from the blood flow into his. The inner corners of his eyebrows are raised and pulled together, wrinkling the space between his brows. I follow those melancholic rivers that stream down his face until I reach the corners of his mouth. I find lips that are pressed into a thin line as he looks at me, his jaw noticeably tense. The pain he feels is so evident and I hate seeing that written across his face. I wish I could wipe it away and bring back that smile or the incredulous yet amused look I'm usually on the receiving end of, but I can't. I can't make this better. There's nothing I can do.

"Come on, Buck, just hang in there." There's an unsteadiness to his voice that is usually so exuding of strength and confidence, an anxious tremble like an alarm that grows greater the worse I steadily get.

Raising my right arm, I shakily manage to get it high enough to rest my hand on Steve's, gripping his gently. After a moment, using his upper hand he carefully takes my hand and puts it in place of his before setting his hand back on top, sandwiching mine between his as he continues to exert pressure. I still can't distinguish his warmth but the pressure of his hand on mine reassures me somewhat. My breathing is getting worse as my breaths are increasingly turning into gasps as I fight to get enough oxygen into my body. The injury makes that harder with the lung letting some of the air escape and swirl out in my chest, filling every available space it can find as it goes and creating a feeling of tightness throughout the cavity. There's no way I'll be able to say everything I want to, the heaviness I feel weighing down any words that would want to work their way out into vocalisations and the tightness of the space keeping them trapped. 

"I'm sorry." Is all I manage to get out in a rasp. I don't say what in particular I'm sorry for, but in all honesty I'm not so sure myself. I guess I'm sorry for a multitude of things.

I'm sorry for ignoring him, for being outrageously stubborn, and for not speaking to him sooner just for the sake of avoiding another confrontation. I'm sorry for the days I would fall back into myself and cause some hurt that I would never realise until later when I'd finally look him in the eye. For the instances where I would disappear for days at a time, leaving no hint as to where I was and no way to contact me. For the occasional sleepless nights and the ones where I'd wake up screaming. For the times I would hide myself somewhere because everything was so overwhelming and it would take hours of searching for him to find me. I'm sorry for the nights I would wander off to go and stand on the edge of the roof. I never consciously intended to jump, I just liked the feeling of standing there because it made me feel something. The reasoning didn't mean much though when every time Steve would burst out onto the roof at full speed and forcefully yank me away from the edge, absolutely out of his mind. I'm sorry for the initial recovery period that felt like it lasted forever after I was freed from the grasps of Hydra. I'm sorry for getting imprisoned by Hydra for all those years. For falling from the train. For getting captured by Hydra the first time around. I'm sorry for going to war and leaving him behind, that I wasn't there to protect him. I'm sorry for what I just did and making him watch me get shot multiple times before falling to the ground, lying here barely moving. I had no choice though. 

I couldn't stand by and watch everyone get killed because of my inaction.

I put people at risk last time, and I was sure as hell not going to repeat that mistake.

I guess I'm leaving him behind again, but this time around I did my job. I kept him safe.

"Buck, please." It comes out as a whisper. It's a desperate plea, a tearful request, a reluctance to accept that this may be goodbye.

Slowly I manage to exert enough energy to raise my left arm and let my hand drop on top of Steve's that already covers my other one, briefly tightening my grip before letting it relax slightly. Without hesitation he takes my hand and places it with the other so that they're both now sandwiched between his, his fingers attempting to wrap themselves around those on both of my hands. My eyelids are beginning to feel heavy, like they are magnets being tempted together, the force of them growing stronger with each passing second.

The sounds of gunfire have stopped. In my blurry peripheral vision I can make out the shapes of the others slowly approaching myself and Steve, stopping a short distance away to allow us space. The space is given to allow us this one moment that is looking to be our last. Among the unintelligable sounds of worry and upset from the rest of the team, I can vaguely hear Stark talking in what could be argued as a panicked tone, requesting that F.R.I.D.A.Y send some sort of emergency medical pod or something like that. I'm not really paying attention, my focus is on Steve and the eye contact that remains unbroken. I attempt to squeeze Steve's hand that is immediately on my chest and raise the corner of my mouth ever so slightly through my gasps for air, hoping he feels my weak grasp and that it conveys everything I want to. That it'll be okay. That I love him. That again, I'm sorry.

My body is so tired.

I'm going to miss everything, but I did what I had to do.

The team are all still standing.

Steve is safe.

With the knowledge that I have achieved my primary mission, I let my eyes fall shut.

For a second, I conjure a perfect replication.

I feel peace.

My grip loosens.

Then I feel nothing.


End file.
